


In the Strangest of Places

by Psycho_Chiquita



Category: Megamind (2010)
Genre: Based on Events, Short One Shot, Strangers in the dark, mental cleanse, out for a walk, taking a break, which may or may not be true, writers block
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-06-23 15:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15609069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Psycho_Chiquita/pseuds/Psycho_Chiquita
Summary: Writers block sucks. Especially when the story came out of nowhere and the deadline is in less than a week. But what better thing for Roxanne to do than go out for a breather, maybe get some ideas. Or meet someone along the way that could help with the push.





	In the Strangest of Places

**Author's Note:**

> So, I went for a walk earlier this week. This may or may not be a word-for-word retelling of that night.  
>   
> Sorry that they're a bit standoff-ish, they're in a more relaxed state than usual and more focused on making sure stupid doesn't get hurt.
> 
> We all know who stupid is.

She has a problem all of its own. Staring at the little line on her word document blink in mockery of her brain's refusal to cooperate for the segment she has been tacked with in a last minute decision to have something up for Thanksgiving day.

She doesn't know how it will come about, only that it  _has_  to  _(if you want to make ratings you have to give them what they want_  she can hear him say in her ear, the feeling of his breath like a snail being dragged across the curve of the cartilage)

(she shivers at the reliving of that feeling)

And yet the line keeps blinking, her mind dragging in that slow way the snail moves, this time across the windowsill where she keeps the outdoor plants near the fire escape. She realizes she's been staring at that damn thing move for thirty-two minutes now, her mind jumping from wondering how it managed to climb fifteen flights of stairs to  _I should probably put a can of beer out there_  and she chides herself for not being able to focus on the problem at hand.

She's stuck.

And it's not the same kind of stuck she usually gets when she's on a roll and comes to a wall on how to move forward with her work.

It's the stuck were the gears refuse to move, oil and grease dumping over the metal relentlessly and no amount of torque and lubrication can make them budge from the iron grip. Regardless of how often she leaves the laptop, or reads on other segments and stories (fact or fictional), or even decides to distract herself with a mindless task (at least that half knitted scarf she started in middle school has been done. Half assed and sad but done).

She grunts at the laptop as the clock on the top right joins in the mockery.  _9:38_. Thirty-eight minutes now and not a letter closer to having the file done in time for the deadline.

Shifting in her seat on the couch, the dog yawns as it translates the mood of the room through body language, having climbed up alongside her lap after she finally ignored his licking noises and hasn't bothered to tell him to get down.

 _why did she take in the dog on a holiday? why did Karen have to leave for a whole week for thanksgiving? She's never met anyone to enjoy the company of their own family THAT much._  
  
Regardless, she took in the angry little fur-ball and hasn't really taken the time to know him. Closing the laptop on the blank file, she proceeds to rummage her closet for immense layers of clothing for the weather (barely twenty-seven outside but you can never be too warm), grabs a hold of the miniature parka Karen brought for the dog ( _that's what FUR is for_ Roxanne had told her, to which Karen held up the hairless chihuahua) and started the routine act of getting them both bundled up for a walk.

Halfway down the elevator and she's already regretting the idea of walking the dog. He keeps growling and lunging towards every person coming in and out throughout the ride.

"Why does she love you?" she groans, completely absentminded of the fact there was still a person behind her on the ride down. This one the dog fails to intimidate, for they have interesting smells surrounding their feet.

Once they have reached the lobby she has another pang of regret, the cold unforgivingly cutting through the warm shield of her clothing. Even the dog seems to hesitate with his walking towards the front door as he breaks into a violent shiver.

She stops as the person behind her clears their way to the lobby doors, a brief moment of recalculation as she slowly waves out a finger towards the buttons and commands the elevator to drop down into the parking garage.

She knows she's just prolonging the inevitable cold but that's okay in her mind, so long as she rides without the heater on.

They drive aimlessly down the city, bright lights giving way to darkened neighborhoods, until she reaches a somewhat familiar part of town she's not sure she's ever been in before. Pulling over to a curb, she eyes the vacant streets and is relieved for the lack of other restless walkers, considering the fact that Karen  _specifically_  mentioned Gorton not liking the company of other dogs.

( _you named him after Ramsay?_  She asked.  _No, I named him after the fish-sticks_  Karen clarified)

Turning the car off and getting the leash back on, she walks with no direction in mind. Since the buildings in the area aren't as densely packed as they would be within the downtown area, there aren't any sudden wind tunnels or drastic changing in temperature from walking by heating ducts, and the best part is no other random strangers in the dark.

With Gorton strolling ahead of her, she pays no mind to where they're heading, and even gains confidence in letting him lead with his leash unhooked. Hey, she feels like bending a few rules tonight, it's not like there's anyone around to see.

Her eyes slowly adjust to the growing darkness, a few stray floodlights lighting the way blinding her of their current path. He takes a couple of trotting steps, stops at a spot of interest to take in a few lingering smells, and continues with his nose leading the way.

It isn't until she hears the soft voiced murmuring of a person nearby and the familiar ringing of another dog's collar that she panics and tries to call out for Gorton to come back, but it's useless, the dog has as much attachment to her as a fish to a hook.

"It's okay," the voice calls out. "She's friendly."

"Yeah, but he's not."

Her ribcage suddenly hurts with worry that the dog would get injured around the other,  _much_  bigger one, its looming white figure making it look very much like a-

"Ghost, will you cut that? He's not a plaything," the man's voice calls out to the silent dog, the bouncing creature giddy with excitement, knocking over Gorton with one silent swoop of her body.

Gorton stares at the sky after having been flipped on his back, not sure what the hell just happened.

"I do apologize, she doesn't get to interact very much with other dogs, not since she lost use of her voice-box."

"Oh you poor thing," she sympathizes, wanting to kneel to give the white dog a good rubbing, but she seems to be preoccupied with,  _Gorton remaining on his back- is, he submitting?_

"Quitter," she calls out playfully, straightening herself out and securing her hands back in the shield of her coat pockets.

"If I may ask, what, brings you around this area, at this time of night? We hardly get any visitors in our neighborhood," the man calls out. She's still having trouble making out his figure, and it's hard to tell with all the layered clothing and multiple headwear he seems to be sporting.

"Actually, I'm, stuck on a current story of mine," she replies shyly, diverting her eyes to the iced rainwater drain they stood alongside to avoid eye contact.

(Not like they could see each other's faces in the dark anyway, the way both of them remain in the shadows)

"Writer," he states more than asks, she nods in confirmation.

"Fictional, or?-"

"Journalism."

"Ah," he words out with an upwards nod of his head. "So you walking around at this time of night, and getting stuck on your story relates-?"

She runs her free hand over the arm holding the leash. "It helps clear my mind. When I get stuck in a rut."

He goes quiet, in agreement or contemplation she's not sure of, but she keeps the silence and watches the dogs do their playful dance.

"It's frustrating, you know, getting stuck on something you can clearly see in your head," she says through the quiet.

"Sometimes I'll be working on something for so long, then another story comes through, disrupting my plans. I actually had an article set aside that I had been working on for a few months now and planned on releasing it earlier this month. And I pushed the release a week. Then another. Until I got stuck, and it didn't help that my boss tossed me a non-descriptive fluff piece with a Thanksgiving deadline this Sunday. Told me to just "wing it". Could be over anything as long as it was holiday themed."

She huffs and gives a kick towards a stray pebble, never looking up towards the stranger.

"I know how that feels like."

She looks up from her downturned gaze with curious surprise, letting him go on his own.

"Sometimes I get an idea, a plo-plan. And I end up trailing another one before the first is finished. By the end of it I end up leaving a trail of notes strung together, and some-how they still make sense. Barely.

"You know sometimes taking a break does help, I've gotten my fair share of "blocks" broken through a nap, eating a snack," he continues as he lifts his fingers to his mouth and letting out a whistle, calling out his dog to stand by his side with barely held-in excitement.

"Sometimes it takes you doing something unexpected, taking a different route people expect from you. If anything, I'm willing to bet you could get back on that thing this very moment and tear that wall down, because sometimes you find inspiration in the strangest of places. From my experience at least."

She buries herself in the comforting warmth of her coat, a delicate smile teasing over her fingers grasping the plaid scarf around her neck.

"Hey, you know what, thanks. I'll-, I'm gonna hit the keyboard, I think-, I got myself straightened out."

"No problem," the desolate voice calls out towards her shadowed figure, already turned away and heading back into the darkness that leads to her car, the small dog panting and jumping excitedly around her feet.

She doesn't see that he stands there a moment too long, watching her walk away. Doesn't notice the weak shifting of his feet, the white dog waging in place with her silent smile and floating to hover by her master's elbow as he turns to head back home.

"Come on Ghost, I think I finally figured out how to fix that voice box of yours."

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, damn writers block. Funny enough I went for a walk with my less than social dog, and he tried to attack a big fluffy thing that thought he was trying to play.  
>   
> He learned his lesson.
> 
> Anyway, this somehow instantly popped in my head, it's pretty obvious and cliched I know, but my hands went straight to the keyboard and wouldn't stop.
> 
> Feeling still stands, full year later.  
> -La loquita 


End file.
